


Vintage Memories

by SinfulSickness



Category: Hazbin Hotel (Web Series)
Genre: Abuse, Afterlife, Angst, Blood and Gore, Cannibalism, Drama, Drug Abuse, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, Heartbreak, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Memories, Original Character(s), Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Racism, Romance, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-12
Updated: 2021-01-17
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:55:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26961748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SinfulSickness/pseuds/SinfulSickness
Summary: "Seventy-four years...""Seventy-four...fuckin' years!""I searched for ya' for decades! I thought ya' were fuckin' dead!""We are dead, my dear.""Did ya' even look for me?!"Follow as these young lovers, who were violently ripped apart by death, come to recognize each other again in the afterlife. Decades have passed; Angel, a famous pornstar and struggling drug addict, and Alastor, a feared and revered overlord of hell with powers beyond anyone's twisted imagination. Neither soul expected to ever reunite with their lost lover again, assuming them erased and gone for good.Separated by cruel circumstance, will these condemned sinners be able to rekindle the love they cherished in their human lives many decades ago, or has hell garnered too much change for these souls?Delving into the world of their memories as they navigate through their afterlives in present day, we'll come to find out.The stage is set, so stay tuned~
Relationships: Alastor/Angel Dust (Hazbin Hotel), Charlie Magne/Vaggie
Comments: 17
Kudos: 168





	1. A Bittersweet Memory

The gentle night overshadowed the quiet cobblestone streets of New Orleans. Soft jazz bounced through the air with the lollop of flittering butterflies from the distant party scene of Bourbon Street. The neighborhood was quaint, with picturesque, Edwardian estates lining the streets, and their residents asleep in their beds. Not a home was lit, as it was now passing two in the morning. The only sources of light remaining were the scattered street lamps, and the reigning moon above them. 

Two shadows slunk down the street, giggling to themselves as they hurried towards the source of the music. If they minded their time well, they could both get a few solid hours of reckless jollification before needing to return to avoid suspicion. The taller of the two profiles stepped into the light, his bleached-blonde hair with growing, dark roots acted almost reflective in the lamplight. He was a younger boy, no older than sixteen, tall and skinny, with porcelain, pale skin. The features he bore were soft—almost feminine in the gentle curves of his cheeks and jaw, and the effete upturn of his freckled nose. His timidly blue eyes, outlined in a soft hue of pink eyeshadow and mascara, turned to look at the trailing figure behind him.

“Hurry up, slow-ass!” His teasing, east coast accent was hushed to not alert any of the neighborhood residents. The second phantom picked up his pace, his dark-chocolate, slicked back hair and russet, brown skin shone briefly in the brilliance of the street lamp before he passed the other boy, a devilish grin on his face.

“If it is a race you want, mon cher, then it’s you who will need to hurry up.” He whispered back in a silvery, cajun intonation. Both boys broke into a full sprint, the only audible sounds being the muffled thudding of their shoes against the pavements, and a few quiet titters between their labored breaths. They could hear the growing volume of the music drawing near as they hurried out of the neighborhood and into the bustling town.

The radiant amasses of multicolor lights; the blaring, jovial music; the crowds of partying people; it felt like a breath of life in the soulless corpse of the desolate, late night. The two boys weaved through the maze of dancing and gyrating bodies. The shorter of the two boys grabbed the hand of his blonde companion, his amber eyes scanning the crowd for an exit from this mob. 

“Stay close, cher. You wouldn’t want to get lost now.” The blonde nodded as his company guided them through the streets and up onto the sidewalk, providing them a minimal amount of breathing room from the partygoers. 

“This is amazing!” He exclaimed gleefully, his blue eyes darting everywhere in a hasty attempt to take in everything he could possibly harbor. He turned to his companion, devoting his attention to his form now that it was haloed in the colorful lights of the Mardi Gras parade. The New Orleans native—on the cusp of early adulthood—was dressed rather dapperly compared to himself, who just decided to wear a pair of comfortable jeans and a low cut, white shirt. His cajun friend adorned a well tailored brown vest over a cotton white shirt, paired fittingly with a pair of black pants and shoes. His deep, chocolate hair was short and neatly combed back, contrasting the blonde’s longer and wild hair pulled back in a hastily set ponytail. 

He minded his stature well, his posture poised and polite, coming up just an inch shorter than his compatriot. The brunette looked up at his evening cohort through the lenses of his glasses, the smile never faltering from his angular face. The blonde glanced down as an equanimous hand surrounded his own again.

“Follow me, I know a better spot.” He led his companion through the streets, diverting themselves from the bustling throng. The cajun gentleman escorted his companion into the discreet backdrop of an uninhabited alleyway. Perched against the brick wall, he gestured to a fire escape, before grasping the tarnished metal and hoisting himself up, ascending to the top of a two story building. The out-of-towner followed him up to the roof, watching as he meangered to the edge, overlooking the parade, and casually sat himself down. He turned to glance back at him, still standing in motionless incertitude, as if he was waiting to be told what to do. The brunette chuckled, patting the spot next to him, “come on now, you won’t be able to witness the show from all the way back there?” The blonde walked over, taking a seat next to him, their feet dangling over the edge. If he didn’t know any better, he would’ve worried his shoes might slip from his feet, plummeting down onto the unsuspecting heads below, only to then lose them forever in the reveling fray.

“I swiped these from my old man…” The blonde reached into his back pockets, pulling out a flask and a pack of cigarettes, “his dumbass won’t even know it’s missin’.” He snickered to himself, tearing the pack open. He handed a cigarette to his companion, before setting one in his mouth. Grabbing a lighter from his front pocket, he lit the brunette’s before lighting his own with the slack shielding of his hand. He took a long drag, before pulling the cigarette from his lips and expelling the smoke into the night air. It felt as if gravity, naturally, pulled his head down to lean against the sturdiness of his cajun companion’s shoulder. A deft flick of his thumb, and the flask was opened, him taking a swig, cringing slightly at the bitter tang before offering some to the other.

“Want some, Allen?” The blonde offered, and Allen rejected with a soft chuckle. 

“One of us should be coherent tonight, mon ange.” The blonde perked up at the new name, peeking up at him from his firm position against his shoulder. Throughout their times together, he’d often hear little utterances of Allen’s French dialect through the forms of cherished pet names: _mon cher, belle, chéri, mon amour _. Those special, sweet nothings always brought forth an aching flutter in his chest, one he didn’t think he could ever grow weary of. Even so, he hadn’t heard that name before.__

____

__

“What does that mean?” Allen looked to the streets below him, his tight-lipped smile as soft as his gaze.

“It means my angel…” The blonde spurned the name with a scoff, but even so, it still made him blush.

“Angel? Ha! I ain’t no angel!” The brunette shrugged his shoulder, causing the blonde to lift his head and look up, meeting his deep, brown eyes. The unshakeable conviction that stood like a cemented stone wall behind those eyes never failed to leave him weak in the knees, all while pulling him in deeper into their alluring mystery. He swore there were some days where he couldn’t even fathom what was running through his lover’s mind—truly the most captivating of enigmas.

“You are to me, Anthony.” Allen insisted, and Anthony rolled his eyes in contempt, the blush spreading far past the boundaries of his cheeks. In a bid to reclaim himself, he looked back down to the partygoers below them.

“With all the shit I’ve done, ya’ shouldn’t be callin’ me that, babe.” Allen shrugged again, following Anthony’s distant gaze down to the people—people dancing with their evening partners, drinking and laughing in merriment with friends and family, what-have-you. He then took a long hit from his gifted cigarette, before he spoke again.

“My father once told me: the choices we make are ultimately our responsibility…” Anthony turned back to him, who failed to look up from his view of the parade. Allen’s eyes mirrored the glow of the harlequin lights he gazed so heavily down upon. Bleach-blonde eyebrows knitted together in confusion. What the hell did that mean? Was that Allen’s off-handed gesture at trying to make him feel better?

“That’s not exactly comforting!” He snapped at Allen, who still didn’t look up to meet his gaze. Allen stayed still and silent for a moment, his eyes unwavering; his smile unfaltering. Annoyance quickly altered to earnest curiosity for just what was running through Allen’s mind. He didn’t get the chance to ask however. With a slow breath, Allen continued. 

“I’ve done things too, that I must take responsibility for one day.” He chuckled to himself despite his grim forecast, “not in the same sense as you perhaps...I guess everyone is born under differing circumstances-”

“Ya’ don’t say.” Anthony’s sardonic reply only earned him a stern, but gentle nudge of Allen’s elbow into his bicep.

“Let me finish...” Although there was no pain, Anthony rubbed his arm in mock suffering. “ _but _sooner or later we are all left to our own devices to dictate the courses our lives take. Once you have reached the age to do so, you can branch out and become whatever you wish to be.” He nudged Anthony again playfully, this time to the side of his torso. The action ignited a sudden electric sensation throughout Anthony’s body, “we can be redeemed only to the extent to which we see ourselves.” He recognized that saying; he had heard it in a book Allen had read to him. It only took a moment for Anthony’s bratty nature to whip up a teasing rib.__

____

__

“Ya’ stole that.” He accused him of the plagiarized phrase, the brunette feigning offense, “was that ya’ try’na be deep?” 

“I suppose so. How was my attempt?” His question was met with a pointed-down thumb of cold rejection, “I have half a mind to shove you off this rooftop.” 

“I’ll just drag ya’ down with me, babe.” They shared a pleasant bout of laughter between themselves. Allen peaked back up at him with a playful smirk. With a nimble cant to the side, he planted a sweet kiss to the blonde’s pale cheek. 

____

__

“I love you, mon ange.” Anthony was left smiling subtly to himself, a bit of his lip tucked up underneath his teeth to suppress it. Allen rarely divulged blatant forms of affection, and sorely never in any public surroundings. Perhaps he should take his chance. He turned to Allen, leaning over to plant a soft kiss to his lover’s lips, delighted to feel him return the tender pressure.

“I love ya’ too.” He mumbled against his lips before pulling back and taking another long drag from his cigarette.

* * *

The boys stayed atop the rooftop as the party raged on, Allen delighting his out-of-state companion with tellings of Mardi Gras traditions and customs. Anthony listened wholeheartedly to his lover’s anecdotes regarding his culture. He could listen to Allen talk uninterrupted for hours. With his skillful art in storytelling, fiction and non-fiction alike, Anthony found it all too easy to melt into the worlds and tales Allen’s words constructed, rendering him unable to pull away from such stimulating locution—much like a spell.

They had managed to go through the entire pack of cigarettes before Allen finally concluded the night, standing and brushing off his pants before helping Anthony to his feet.

“We should head back now…” He stated softly, a hint of sadness in his voice at the ending night. Anthony looked to the east, the sun barely peeking over the horizon, gentle hushes of oranges and pinks overtaking the dark purple canvas. He nodded and followed Allen down the ladder and into the street again, the number of people dwindling to just the few hardiest of stragglers. They walked home side by side. Once they were certain of no prying eyes, their hands instantly found themselves entangled in each other. 

“Allen…”

“Yes, mon ange?”

“When I finally get out from under that bastard’s thumb, and I’m able to come back here permanently, wanna maybe…” A blush erupted across his face as he avoided his lover’s questioning, brown eyes. He had been pondering this proposition for a few months, but even with the copious amounts of preparation, and an eleventh-hour rehearsal in his mirror, his heart still drummed in his chest, “wanna maybe live together?” Allen’s face—subsequent to a brief moment of process—lit up at the question, his smile growing wider, if even possible. 

“Nothing would make me happier.” He gave the blonde’s hand a gentle, affirming squeeze. Anthony grinned in return, a wave of relief washing away that building anxiety. He reciprocated his delight with a faint clench of his held hand. 

Once they reached Allen’s home, the boys parted ways with a gentle kiss, before Anthony continued on to his hotel, lost in the reverie of a life where he would be able to wake up next to his lover every morning. His heart skipped a beat at the thought of that domestic bliss, a clear contrast of what his life was presently. He couldn’t wait until he was old enough to escape the chains of his family and build a life together with his handsome companion; endless days infused with nothing but happiness and love.

If only it had been that easy…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _“We can be redeemed only to the extent to which we see ourselves.” - Martin Buber_  
> 
> 
> Thank you for checking out the first installment of Vintage Memories. This story is my first attempt at publishing my work on here (I have been publishing the earlier renderings of this story on Wattpad as well). There are more than likely a few grammatical and punctuational errors, as I am most certainly not a professional in this field, but I hope that the story is interesting enough to allow for a few blemishes here and there.
> 
> Again, I thank for your patronage, and I hope you enjoy my story to the end. 
> 
> Truly,
> 
> \- Your friendly neighborhood sinner


	2. “Mornin’ Sunshine”

The bustling sounds of the city coming to life roared through the open hotel window. It was morning, according to the alarm clock, just on the brink of 10:30am. However, the nights and days always seemed to run together in their unanimous reign, with dark, gloomy days, and starless, caliginous nights. A cacophony of screaming, mixed with the bluster of demolishment and gunfire, echoed throughout the trashed city, and yet, the motionless lump in bed didn’t stir awake until the alarm hit 10:30am, blasting its horrendous racket throughout the room. The fleece lump groaned and stirred. A pale-pink hand, with long, lacquered claws emerged from the cocoon of blankets, reaching out and shutting off the alarm with a rough knock to the top of the clock. 

“Fuck…” The mound of sheets muttered bitterly, before being set aside. Two long, furry legs revealed themselves from beneath the bedsheets, stretching the stiffness from their lazed muscles before throwing themselves over the side of the luscious, pink bed. The white, fuzzy figure sat up, humming slightly as he curled his feet into his plush rug. He pulled himself from the loving embrace of his plush mattress, walking across his hotel room to the mirror vanity at the opposite wall. Grabbing his hair brush, he examined himself in the mirror, gauging just how much work needed to be done to ready himself this morning. 

Large, mismatched eyes peered back at his demonic, arachnid form, layered in a curious amalgam of pink and white fur. Two sets of arms seemed to act independent of each other. His lower pair crossed themselves around his body as his primary pair focused on brushing through the soft fur on his chest, satisfied once it peaked in its voluminous glory. His makeup, a blurred mess of pink eyeshadow and smudged eyeliner, decorated his face. In a drunken eagerness to enter sleep quickly, he had forgone washing his face the night before—a regretful choice in hindsight. A snowy lip curled into a disgusted groan, his golden tooth gleaming with a kiss of the minimal morning light the mirror reflected.

“Ain’t you a hot mess…” 

He combed his fingers through his tangled hair, catching them on a knotty impasse, before turning his hairbrush onto the plumes of fur sprouting atop his head. After a couple minutes of gelling and styling, he was satisfied with his hair, upturned with a gentle, swan-like crane. He grabbed his face products and makeup, beginning to fix up his face.

A few years has slipped by since he last had such a vivid dream about his past. It was impossible to deny the potent heartache thrumming away in his chest when he felt his consciousness fading back to reality. He wanted to live in that moment forever, and felt his mind desperately clawing to hold onto his dream state. 

A brief pause; he sat in remembrance, his hand holding his mascara wand just an inch from his face. He found himself staring off, right through his reflection in the mirror as his mind began to wander. 

When he first arrived in hell, he hoped to find his darling Allen waiting for him. He spent years questing after him, following leads that lead him nowhere; running into dead end after dead end. Eventually, he had to place his lover’s scour on hold, with himself getting closer and closer into trouble during each yearly extermination. After his tenth year, and a far too close-call during the extermination, he came to the eventual conclusion he needed to get in good with an overlord. He knew what he was good at; what he could use to get what he needed. Which abruptly led him to...

He scowled at himself in the mirror as he shook the thoughts of his profession from his mind, continuing to apply his eye makeup. With the airy flick of his delicate hand, he dusted his lashes in the charcoal liquid, branching out from his face in curled whisps. Once he finished, he turned to his towering wall wardrobe. Feeling a lack of stylistic creativity, he shrugged on his favorite pink and white jacket, matching it with a short, black skirt and black, latex boots. After topping off his go-to look with his velvet choker and tie, he sighed, looking back to his bed longingly. 

He desperately wanted to delve back into that sleep state, and see him again, even if it was all an illusion; to feel his gentle touch, and his caring arms encircle him again. As the years trickled by, he found himself beginning to forget little things: the color of his favorite vest he wore, his job, or his favorite food. Bit by bit, it was starting to steal itself away like sand through the cracks in his clenching fists. He feared for what more he’d fail to recall in the years to come. His heart was up in his throat at that daunting concern, tears threatened to break their walls. A harsh bite clamped down on his lower lip, the sharp pain yanked him back from the brink of crying. No sir—not today. He just put on his makeup, god damn it! 

A soft oink pulled his attention down to his pet pig, who nudged his ankle with a gentle push of his porcine muzzle. The spider smiled, kneeling down to swoop him up. 

“Hey Nuggies! Are ya’ hungry, baby?” He cooed to the little demon pig, earning him a strain of eager squeals from the tiny animal. With a soft peck to his pet’s head, he set him down, going over to his bowl to fill it. The pig scrambled over to the bowl excitedly at the crinkling of the food bag, which had been propped up out of his mischievous reach as of late, digging in before the food even had time to settle.

Once his little piggy was feeding and happy. He briskly grabbed his phone, charging on his nightstand, and hurried out of the room, closing the door behind him. 

Trudging down the hallway, he just managed to catch the elevator just before it closed. He looked down to the pint-sized, one-eyed demon girl he shared the moving box with, bouncing eagerly on her heels to get to the next floor, her blouse and fiftes-era skirt swaying with every joyful movement she made. She looked up at the spider towering over her, and smiled sweetly. 

“Good morning, Angel!” She chirped, “we were missing you at breakfast this morning.” Angel sighed under his breath, looking away from the energetic demon.

“I’m not hungry this mornin’...” He muttered, not lying entirely, but he certainly wasn’t going to tell her where he was planning to scurry off to. He was hungry, just not for anything that could be concocted in that hotel kitchen. The deep-rooted drives of his addictions left him jonesing for a hit of something—anything to lift his spirits. Once the car opened, the smaller demon was off in a flash, leaving Angel in her dust. He chuckled under his breath.

“Spastic bitch,” He emerged from the elevator and into the grand entrance of the hotel he had called home for the last several months. Glancing to his right from the corner of his eyes, he spotted the bar he had fought to keep in the hotel, and the very woman he had fought for it. 

Vagatha stood at the end of the bar, discussing something with the winged-cat demon just out of earshot from Angel. He approached the pair, shooting the cat a playful wink and kiss, only warranting him a toothy snarl from the grumpy demon. Angel smirked in amusement for the reaction he got, before turning his attention to the grey-haired girl he often butted heads with.

“Morning Vags,” Vagatha looked up at the tall arachnid, her expression remaining stagnant. If Angel hadn’t known any better, it would’ve come off cold, but after a few months of cohabitation, he was quick to learn that she’d often keep her emotions abreast—well, exclusive to her anger. She had an explosive temper—a short fuse quick to ignite, and one easily lit by his delinquent antics. 

Throughout the several months of his stay, the air would sometimes grow taut with festering friction between the two, every once in a while coming to a head in near violent, physical altercations. The spider, a virtuoso when it came to reading these condemned sinners, was quick to ascertain just what made her tick, and knew he would have to cater to her good side to get his chance to go out and get what he needed. She scoffed at the put-on formality.

“What do you want, Angel?” She deadpanned, the large device in the shape of a red X standing in place of her left eye captured attention on the grey backdrop of her skin. He smiled, a white-flag gesture; just a hint of mischievousness weaseled through in the sprightful cast in his eyes.

“I’m gonna head out for a bit. I won’t be gone long-” He held up his hand before Vaggie could interrupt with a harsh no, “-and no I won’t start any fights…” He began to run down the list he had been dragooned into memorizing, “no turf wars, no riots, no arson, no killing, no mugging, no vandalism, no kidnapping, no extortion, no shootouts-”

“Okay, okay!” Vagatha raised her hands in exasperation. She pinched the bridge of her nose as she attempted to quash her annoyance, the irritated creases puckering at the conjunction between her shut eye and nose. She back-handedly shooed him away with her other, “fine, just…be back soon.” Angel nodded with the innocence of an obedient child, before hurrying himself out of the hotel and onto the streets; heels clicked against the pavement with every swaying step. He actively chose to ignore the cat-calls and harassing comments from passerby demons, not really in the mood to get side tracked. He was on a mission. A moment of rifling, and he pulled some loose cash from his pocket—he had earned from a covert, late night tryst—as he raised his phone, held in his lower right hand, to his face, checking his notifications to distract himself from the harassment. 

“Jackasses,” He hushly spat to himself as he traversed through the city.

Seventy-four years since his rebirth into this hell-scape, since he was condemned to suffer for his transgressions. He had grown accustomed to the sights and sounds of the city, as morbidly intriguing as they were, often times losing himself to his observations. The way the city-born pollution rose from the buildings to the crimson sky above, like scum to the surface of boiling water; the rancid smell of death and decay that assaulted the nostrils with every regrettable breath—home-sweet-home. He had made his peace with it years ago.

He glanced to his right, to the pavement across the way, watching as a dainty demoness, her wrists and ankles as frail in appearance as chicken bones, fought with a broad-backed demon for her purse. Angel was certainly impressed with her resolve, holding her own remarkably well despite her smaller stature. She drew a pistol from her person, and promptly, a bullet between his eyes. The attempting mugger dropped to the ground in a lifeless heap; the lady, with an upturned nose, turned on her heels and stormed down the street in a huff. Other spectating demons shamelessly descended upon the body, like circling sharks and vultures, stripping him of all he owned until the body was left naked in the street. A wayward demon eventually sauntered by, picking up the body and whisking it away to do whatever he wished with it: fuck it, eat it—who cared. Angel continued on his way unbothered. This was the way of life down here, a continual ebb and flow of ignoble, cutthroat turpitude, and heartless apathy, as constant as the red sun that came every day to reign her wrath down on them. A spur-of-the-moment mugging; a violent foray in the streets, just commonplace monotony; nothing more than customary communication the same as a common exchange of pleasantries or how-do-you-dos from one to another. That woman was certainly in her right mind to arm herself, one would be a fool not to in this dog-eat-dog society.

It was amusing to him, as he grew accustomed to his new surroundings, how this chaotic environment single handedly brought out the worst in everyone; to see them devolve to their most animalistic urges. He soon found himself doing the same, submitting to his sinful whims, the throes of his addictions sinking their barbed teeth into the depths of his soul; robbed him of his identity—became his identity. A stage name bestowed upon him by his employer, at first just a bitter reminder of the fatal mistake he made, though, with time, just as the hell-scape he resided in, it grew on him too. _Angel Dust_ : Hell’s number one pornstar; a household name. _Angel Dust_ : who pleased his fans far and wide with his brilliant, natural allure. _Angel Dust_ : who’s name and face were plastered in lights, on billboards, and multi-changing digital screens hundreds of feet in the air. _Angel_ : a name that once held significant meaning to him, cheapened and sullied for the sake of performance. There was only one thing—one constant he could go to when these belittling thoughts plagued him so mercilessly.

The coax of a neon light in the outfield of his vision pulled his gaze up, his eyes locking on a familiar sight, and his smile shot across his face. He approached the vending machine with a gleeful skip to his step. The money slot couldn’t have possibly sucked down his money quicker as he urgently made his selection, and bent down to grab the baggie of snow white powder from the slot.

“Well, well, well!” A familiar, bouncing voice exclaimed behind him with its usual enthusiastic tone, making Angel freeze in his tracks before he could swoop up the bag in his clutches. Radio static buzzed behind him, driving his fur on the back of his neck to stand up on end.

“I can’t imagine Ms. Vagatha would be pleased to know that you left the hotel to indulge yourself in such...unsavory behaviors.” Angel pinched his eyes closed in frustration as he let out an exasperated groan.

Fuck, he was so busted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may notice, as we proceed through this story, that from chapter to chapter, my writing style might alter a little bit here and there. I’m constantly reading books and stories, and experimenting with ways of conveying my ideas through new words and phrases. I do hope, that even with this advertence regarding my inconsistency, that you continue to enjoy the story. 
> 
> (I suspect this arises from my ADHD, OCD, and self-criticism, but it’s honestly anyone’s guess)
> 
> Gratefully yours, 
> 
> \- Nessa


	3. Some Things We Just Can’t Speak About

Angel stood abruptly, leaving the baggie in the tray. His posture was stiff, dreading to look back at the looming form behind him. He needn’t guess, he knew just who that static-filtered timbre belonged to.

“A-Alastor!” Angel could only muster a stuttering squeak, peeking back at the demon who caught him in his moment of indignity. 

Alastor stood poised a couple feet behind him, dressed in the wonted, red ensemble he always wore. Every crease laid perfectly folded from his lapel to his pressed, wrinkle-free slacks. There wasn’t a disarranged string or a wayward piece of lint to be seen, for Alastor was exceedingly punctilious in how he chose to present himself.

His black gloved hands clasped each other behind his back in a bid to keep his composure amongst his rising excitement, holding his staff in the crook of his arm. Dark wine hair framed the sides of his gracile, grey features, fading into a neat, jet black, with his bangs neatly styled to rest above his imperiously arched eyebrows. Tufts of hair plumed upwards in the shapes of cervus ears, standing at attention atop his head with vim for the engaging situation he came upon, neighboring a small set of antlers that nested between them.

From their first encounter—Angel’s bold offer to suck him off—they had established their discrepancies painfully clear to each other, and from that, birthed a rather contentious nature. Alastor wasn't afraid to tell Angel exactly what he thought of him and his behavior. In fact, he seemed to revel in it, following it with an onslaught of vacillating derision and censure. His crooked grin grew mischievously upon his approach. Concentration shifted to the vending machine, and, ushering Angel aside with the authoritative eject of his arm, he picked up the baggie himself, examining it with his piercing, crimson eyes.

“Hm~ I could have sworn you told our dear Charlie that you’ve been clean all this time…” His statical tone was laced with malicious jest, watching the spider demon turned away from him look down at his shoes. “What a shame...she was so proud of the progress that you were making.”

With rue in his heart, Angel clenched his fists, cursing himself for his momentary lapse in prudence. All of the meticulous moves and planned secrecy he had upheld for the last few months washed away in an instant upon his exposure. It had been a long, splendid intermission since he had last been caught with drugs on his person. Charlie had indeed voiced her delight in the progress she thought he was making. Little did she know, in her innocently sanguine nature, that it was nothing but phoney achievements, a lie—an act. Not even a modicum of effort was offered yet again, despite her own efforts for him. 

_What Charlie doesn’t know, won’t hurt her._

That little aphorism had assuaged him as he carried on with his high-chasing vagaries. Now that the masquerade was ripped away, that pestilential sense of chagrin spread throughout his body, and weighed his shoulders down, causing them to fall in disgrace. Much like that evening of the turf war all those months ago, he’d have to witness Charlie’s face fall in despondency, her altruistic generosity once again besmirched by his weak resolve. He hated himself for it, but still, it only worsened the desperation for that sweet escape held in the overlord’s grasp. Angel finally turned to face him, peeking up as Alastor grinned smugly at him. Angel’s discomfort was obvious in the uneasy shift of his weight from one leg to the other.

“She’ll be absolutely devastated to know you’ve been pulling the wool over everyone’s eyes—using her and her kindness. All for this piteous little escape from this joke you call your existence.” With a jingle of his wrist, he gestured with the bag.

“A-are ya’ gonna tell her?” Angel asked flatly, dreading the answer he’d get. Instead, Angel was shocked to see Alastor casually toss the bag back to him, leaving him scrambling to catch it. After a few fumbled mishaps, he managed to take a sturdy hold, the bag embosomed as if he had just caught a falling child.

“I don’t see why it is any of _my_ business.” Alastor turned away from the spider, wiping the hand that once held the drugs on the breast of his coat as if he had plucked something up from the filthy gutter, “I shouldn’t be the one to break the disappointing news to her.” He chuckled, “but I’m sure you’re more than used to it, hm?—disappointing people.” Angel’s blood boiled, his heart drowning out the sounds around him with violent palpitations. Alastor’s mockery had began chip away at him.

 _Who the hell does this strawberry pimp looking mother fucker think he is?!_

Cursing raptures rejoiced their bitter sentiments in his mind.

Alastor was notorious for his enrapture in seeing sinner after sinner—many of whom didn’t last long—trigger their breakneck plunge into the nadir of their failures while clamoring desperately for their rehabilitation. Angel was by far the longest to stay in the hotel, undeterred by Alastor’s maltreatment, refusing to give in and hightail it out of the hotel like so many others. Perhaps that was the reason behind Alastor’s fixity of purpose for attempting to weasel his way underneath his skin. It was all just a twisted game to him—a challenge. Angel was nothing more than a mere pawn for his entertainment.

“I...had a really hard night last night…” He uttered, humiliated, fighting to keep his tone from cracking.

“Oh, I’m sure~” An unsympathetic retort shot back with a jesting lilt, “you and your-” Alastor acknowledged the bag in Angel’s hand with the backward thrust of his head, “-kind are notorious for your weak tenacity.” Even though he faced away, Angel caught Alastor rolling his eyes in distaste, and a growl slipped through the wall of his clenched teeth. He gripped the bag so tightly it was just on the brink of popping its plastic case from the pressure.

“Who the fuck are ya’ to judge me, ya’ fuckin’ creep!!” He hollered at Alastor.

Alastor, with a crack of his neck, snapped his head back to look at the raging spider. The screech of a record scratching to a halt sounded in the air around him. Despite his unfaltering, smug smile, he was certainly surprised at the guts of Angel. In his decades here, no lowly demon dared raise their voice to him, as doing so would only lead to their instant, and barbarous demise. Needless to say, the spider’s shameful collapse certainly was compelling to watch, so he held his tongue with twisted courtesy, watching like some engaged audience member perched high and mighty in his theater box, as Angel, the star on stage, performed his tragedy for his amusement.

Angel was always so wonderfully defiant, Alastor had taken note after a multitude of failed attempts to break him down. It made this outburst that much more coveted, as Angel continued on his self-justifying loquacity, prattling on in defense of his actions. He neglected to hang on to the actual words that poured out of Angel’s mouth, flowing in one ear and out the other as he planned his next response.

It wasn’t merely one sided, Angel contributed his fair share of antagonisms against him too, especially when it came to Alastor’s strong sexual abnegation—so strong, most wondered if the conviction came from some monastic doctrine, but no matter. Angel would stoop to anything just to ruffle his feathers a bit: vulgar, sexual offers; ricocheting Alastor’s own words back at him as filthy double entendres; invading his personal space, whatever he saw fit. After each offense, Angel would sit back and watch as Alastor writhed and fought to keep from losing his poise with that vixen grin.

On a particular, more recent occasion, the two had a long row over Alastor—Charlie had instructed him to—barring Angel from leaving the hotel late one night to attend a club, deeming it too obscene for the spider’s rehabilitation. Angel then had the unmitigated audacity to leave a large, phallic sex toy—with graphic anatomical correctness—in Alastor’s desk drawer for him to find the next morning, a note attached:

_Maybe if you got some dick yourself, Smiles, you’ll hop off of mine XOXO! - Angel_

The statement was punctuated with a bright red lipstick kiss against the parchment.

If it weren’t for Charlie’s intervention, Angel would’ve died again that day.

“I’m going to obliterate you, you loathsome little harlot!” Alastor had threatened Angel through a cacophony of caterwaul static, eyes like dials thrashing, held back by the princess as she tried to calm him.

“You can obliterate this ass anytime, daddy!” Angel quipped back from his safe placement down the hall, legging it back into his room.

With all Angel’s antics, and the blistering drive for vengeance, it felt almost incumbent for Alastor to dispense this onslaught of ridicule. This glorious ammunition he discovered in hand, he sought to knock him down a peg or two, fitting retribution for his vile little stunt. Alastor stood silent, his lack of response almost cruel as the angered arachnid propelled on in his pathetic defense.

Angel, fueled on nothing but reckless anger and adrenaline, stomped up to the infamous Radio Demon, pointing an accusing finger in his grinning face.

“You don’t know what I’ve been through! The people I’ve lost—the shit I had to do to stay alive!” Angel pulled his hand back and turned abruptly from the Alastor, making his way down the street, retreating to a safe somewhere absent of judgement, “fuckin’ asshole!” Alastor watched the spider demon storm off in a cloud of ire kicked up by his stomping boots, before calling after him.

“Angel, I couldn’t possibly care less about your inadequate excuses. The choices we make are ultimately our responsibility.” He rebutted with a nonchalant sigh, and was confused by Angel suddenly freezing at the remark, the bag of drugs falling from his limp hand and hitting the ground with a soft thud, spewing its white innards across the pavement. The angry aura all at once dissipated from Angel, leaving Alastor unable to read the newer, anemic atmosphere. The air stilled between the two demons, trapping them in a long moment of drawn-out silence, neither making a move.

“Shut the fuck up…” Angel’s voice only uttered itself weakly.

Alastor realized he had seemed to have struck a nerve and, wishing to drill deeper, opened his mouth to continue on in his cruelty, just to find himself at a loss for words when Angel turned. Tears spilled from his mismatched eyes, wetting and staining his furry cheeks with his black mascara. Alastor felt an odd lump in his throat at the sight he never expected to witness: the ever-so impudent Angel, falling to pieces at the drop of a pin.

This suddenly wasn’t fun anymore.

Angel’s triggered eyes held a deep and drowning sorrow, one that Alastor wouldn’t dare poke at—one he understood in an instant: mourning over something lost—valuable perhaps. On an impulse of repentance, and a dismissing wave of his hand, his staff vanished, and he slowly approached the other.

“Angel, I-” Angel turned on his heels, his lower arms wrapped around himself in a shield of protection.

“Shut up!” His cracking cry echoed through the desolate street. Angel took off down the pavement, hiding his face behind his top pair of hands. Alastor called after him, but remained in place, thinking it best to not chase after the hurting demon. He was left utterly staggered at such a reaction, considering that what was said was radically mild compared to his rolodex of insults towards Angel he had kept filed away in his mind—ready for use. Eyesight dropping down to the ground, he stared at the bag of drugs that Angel had left on the ground, its powdery contents strewn about, etched into the cracks and grooves of the broken concrete. The sensation of a growing pit formed in his stomach, constructed from a feeling he hadn’t felt in almost a century:

Guilt.

* * *

Across the hellscape city, a young demoness lugged a large paper bag full of unknown contents up the stairs of her apartment building. Blonde and spunky hair bounced with every lurching movement she made in her upward trek, her singular large eye tracing each insipid apartment door she passed before coming to her own. She reached her pale, ungloved hand into her distressed, black shorts, rummaging around for her keys while balancing the bag in her other arm’s slipping grasp.

“Fuck, fuck, shit!” She muttered at her waning grip, before finally wrapping her fingers around her keys, yanking them out of her pocket, and shoving it into the lock. She hastily unlocked the door and hurried in, shutting and locking the door behind herself.

Her living room, oddly enough, stood to contrast the cyclops-demoness’s rowdy and tattered look with its own rather clean and tidy appearance. Although small, the apartment was decorated fashionably well, with a plush couch for two, a coffee table, and a small flatscreen placed up in the corner. She kicked her red, mismatched shoes off with the brash thrust of her feet before lugging the bag over to the coffee table, placing it down rather roughly with an exasperated sigh. She began to unpack the contents of the bag, laying out the items onto the table that she would ultimately need to build her favorite kind of weapons.

Wonderfully odious inspirations ignited within, and she grinned wickedly at the project before her. She was just about to delve in, only to be interrupted by a wild knock on her door. Turning back to the door, she glowered, irritated at whoever was restraining her crafting with their demand of her attention. She grabbed a small red bomb that she had sitting on her couch side table, and advanced. She peeked through the sight hole, a grin perking up at the familiar distortion of white fur. The bomb was briskly set aside. The door swung open with a welcoming flourish.

“Angie, you crazy bitch! How are y-” Her wide smile fell, her features left agape in concern at the state of her visitor.

“C-Cherri…” Angel stood meekly at her door, both pairs of arms wrapped around himself as if to provide himself with a blanket of comfort. His mascara ran like rivers down his face, his breathing labored from what she could only assume was running—running and crying.

“Can—can I stay here for ta’night?” He groggily begged her through his sniffling.

Cherri nodded without any questions, ushering him into her apartment. She scanned the area suspiciously, as if the reason for his distress could have been out in the distance for her to spot, before turning and following her friend in, closing and locking the door again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your patience. With a full-time job, the holidays (present and future), and personal family matters, my time is a bit constrained at the moment. My writing takes a lot of development before I’m content with it enough to post, and, since I revise and edit everything on my own without outside opinion, it’s rather easy for me to doubt myself and keep the chapter unpublished longer than necessary. 
> 
> Anyways~ Happy Halloween!! 
> 
> Now if you please excuse me, I’m going to go get hammered.
> 
> \- Nessa


	4. A Resolute Warmth

Angel posted himself on the couch, his slender frame bundled in the embrace of his multiple arms. Despite the comfort of the plush furniture, his body refused to relax. His arms still hugged himself tightly as he stared distantly across the room.

Cherri hurried into her kitchen, grabbing a spare rag and wetting it with warm water. Wringing out the overflow, she grabbed a couple of chilled beers and walked back into the living room, placing herself next to her silent houseguest. She nudged him gently, drawing his attention to the heated, wet rag she was offering him.

“Too clean your face, babe.” She gently alluded to the mascara that still actively ran rivers down the gentle arches of his face, cumulating at his chin, and dripping off in charcoal ink-drops. He nodded, his lips upturning just barely into a feeble smile. This wasn’t the first occurrence of Angel appearing at Cherri’s doorstep in some sort of distraught state, and that familiarity acquired her a level of proficiency in calming him unlike any other.

“Thanks toots.” Angel sniffed and took the towel, draping the water-weighted fabric over his face, relishing in the relaxing warmth that enveloped his senses. He hummed in satisfaction. This would certainly aid the headache that was coming on from his explosive crying fit. A few hasty wipes, and he pulled the mascara stained rag back, still leaving slight patches of smudged grey in the now frazzled fur. Feeling a tad embarrassed, he actively avoided his friend’s concerned and questioning gaze, keeping his stare at their feet. His forbearance dragged on for a while, practically counting each individual carpet fiber to keep his eyes away from her.

He had never crumbled so easily at the mere words of another sinner, leaving his pride thoroughly shot. That aphorism Alastor had called to him forcefully yanked away his cloak of fortitude right out of his unsuspecting hands, and, as he stood bare and unprotected, subsequently triggered an inroad of those hurtfully pleasant memories, each one proving harder to bear than the last. In that moment, the only thing that clearly rang through his psyche was the blistering urge to run. Now here he was, the only locality he could run to for safety, and he’d have to confess it all to his closest confidant lest she jump to her own conclusions. If only the couch he sat upon could swallow him whole, and aid his escape from this awkward circumstance.

“Angie, what’s going on?” Angel bit his lip, barring himself from uttering a response. Cherri paused, carefully thinking of a way to word her next question.

“Is Val…bothering you again?” Angel felt his muscles lock at his formidable pimp’s name, which only added validity to Cherri’s concern. Her face twisted into an angry snarl, “I swear Angie, you just say the word and I’ll blow his fuckin’ clown lookin’-ass straight outta-”

“It’s not Val…” Angel muttered, peeking up at his friend. She could easily recognize what was plaguing him upon her direct gaze over his careworn face. Angel, in intimate instances of comfort and trust that he would only grace her with, wore his emotions on his sleeve. His differently colored eyes opened like doorways between the charcoal portieres of his sweeping lashes; straight into his soul.

And all she saw within was heartache.

She pulled her friend into a gentle hug, letting him bury his face into her chest and neck. Four arms shot out and wrapped around her in an instant, clinging to her tightly, fingers enmeshed into the tattered material of her shirt. She had a rising suspicion of what it could be.

“Are ya’ thinking of...him today, babe?” She quietly asked against his hair, his white locks licking at her chin.

His shoulders gave little tremors; he was crying again. That was all the answer she needed; she knew what was going on. She sat quietly, letting him unload his despair into the embrace they shared as he fell further into his paroxysm of weeping. The pyromaniac rested her rose-freckled cheek against his head, her hand gently sweeping up and down the slouched curve of his back for comfort.

She knew all too well about his missing lover from his human life; they told each other everything. Dropping into hell around the same time, they were acquainted long before Angel fell into Valentino’s grasp—long before his selfdom morphed into what it was today. Surviving exterminations together, going through hell and back to provide each other with anything they needed; they labored hand in hand to build themselves up from the concrete they came crashing onto. There was not a single denizen in all of hell that she trusted more than Angel, and she knew, without a toxin of doubt, that his view of her was tantamount to her own of him. So she stood by him loyally through his bad drug trips, let him spend some nights when he needed comfort and protection, and, of course, she would lend an attentive ear as he vented his pent up anger and sadness. She expected it of herself. After all, what he did for her far outweighed anything she could ever attempt to reciprocate...

_“Thank fuckin’ Lucifer it worked...”_

_“What worked? Tony, what did you do?”_

Just the distant memory was still enough to cut her down the bone, but she hid it well under her gentle, assuaging hushes as she continued to hold him close.

She was there all though years ago, by his side when he came to the bitter conclusion after so many failed searches that Allen was dead and gone. They predicted it was most likely at the end of an angel’s spear. It was then, like the snap of a single thread that had held him in place, and as inexplicably as that golden tooth that seemed to just materialize one night, Angel fully, and suddenly plunged himself into his sex career, staying out into the late hours of the nights, honing his preformative persona at his new employer’s demand, and, not to mention, the delve into his own choice of emotional anesthetics: hard drugs. 

Drugs weren't the highlight of her worries. After all, she was even inclined to partake once in a while. What truly shook her was something far more nauseating to behold. She watched the metamorphic change with the incapacitation of a powerless bystander, gaping in horror when he came home one night just as the sun began to illuminate the red sky, beaten nearly half to death. Only to return to that source the very next night, bruises still fresh in their sickly yellows and purples. That was, but only, the first instance—a preamble for the many nights after that that he would return in such a gruesome state.

_It’s my fault_ , he would always say, rambling on in stories about how he had ‘fucked up’ in some unreasonable way, and therefore earned his punishment. And then came his sudden and impromptu move from the home they had spent years cultivating together.

They would still see each other as often as his jam packed schedule would allow, but she watched as with each visit, he changed a bit more, and left a piece of his old self behind somewhere in the fray of pornographic filming, or in the back of another john’s car. Even so, it did little to sway her, she loved Anthony dearly, and Angel was still Anthony, despite whatever changes he would incur. She loved Angel. 

As decades passed, and by these unhealthy means, he had learned to accept his loss—or, more or less, skate by with passing fancies and momentary distractions. Though, now and again, he’d fall to pieces at certain triggers: jazz music, often heard by a transient street performer, a random sight or smell that, though he couldn’t remember exactly why, struck him as familiar, or, on a specific occasion, he had come across certain books that Allen had read to him. Just what trigger had he run into this time?—she wondered.

After a few moments of muffled weeping, Angel’s body stilled, pulling back from the embrace, a basin of fresh, charcoal mascara gathered underneath his eyes. He grabbed the towel with a groan and slapped it roughly over his haggard features. Crooning his head back over the back of the couch, the top of his head touched the wall. He laid motionless, face veiled in the wet rag.

“I feel like fuckin’ shit…” He complained. Cherri giggled softly under her breath, reaching out to grab the two beers she set on the table. She touched the cold neck of one of the bottles to his cheek, eliciting a yelp from her embittered friend as he stiffened in surprise. He yanked the towel from his eyes, relaxing when he saw the just was she was offering him.

“This’ll help.” She smirked.

He chuckled before taking it and twisting the top off. He kicked his head back and took a swig, welcoming the bitter beverage down his throat. Perhaps with the weighted fog of inebriation, it would dilute the sting from these pesky emotions. If only he hadn’t dropped his bag of angel dust, he lamented over his loss. Cherri twisted the top off of hers, but neglected to partake, only watching as her friend sipped his.

“You...wanna talk about it?” She inquired further. Angel pulled the bottle from his lips with a sigh, twirling it in his hands and watching the liquid slosh inside the amber tinted glass. His features were troubled, brows furrowed in agitation.

“It’s that damn radio bastard…” He huffed, kicking his head back and taking another sip. “I was already having a shitty mornin’...I woke up from a dream about my past.” His lower hands took hold of the bottle, the top pair gesturing emphatically as if he was painting the scenes in the air for her to see—the sights and sounds of the Mardi Gras parade, their perch atop the building, their stories and plans they conversed through stolen cigarettes and liquor.

“A good dream too...but it made it that much more shitty to wake up.” His kinesic mannerisms ceased, hands falling limply in his lap, “I just wanted some good shit to get me through the day, and that fucker caught me. His high ‘n mighty ass was really gettin’ under my skin.” His mind drifted back to the pestering altercation, Alastor’s arched, haunting smile still a fresh visage. The peak of his irritation came not from the overlord’s condescension, nor the blistering insults or snide rebukes, but from the look of total bewilderment that was sorely written across Alastor’s face at the sight of his reaction towards that accursed axiom about liability. Alastor had no knowledge of the sentiment that simple quote held, though understandable, how was he supposed to. He knew nothing about Angel’s past—about Allen. Though, Angel doubted a ruthless overlord such as him would care about his unfortunate life even if he had enlightened him. Angel glowered down at his limp hands.

_Pretentious jackass._

Cherri sipped her drink, not taking her eye away from Angel, who was muttering a rancorous descant of profanities under his breath. She could tell who all those profanities were directed at. She was well aware of the contentious nature between them through the endless complaints Angel would relay. Truthfully, Angel griped to her about everyone in that hotel: some bitchy grey girl that always got mad at him for petty matters, or the blonde airhead that was way too ignorantly optimistic for her own good, or the spastic pint-size that would break into his room and go through his private matters as she cleaned against his wishes. Cherri was never adept with remembering names, but Alastor, Angel complained about him far too often for her not to remember his name. Her lips upturned into a smirk against the rim of her bottle.

“Since when do you care about what some dickwad thinks of you?” She took another sip, reveling in the glare that the spider redirected from the absentee overlord, to her instead. He hated to admit it, but her jesting inquiry was well-founded. Other than Cherri, he didn’t really give a damn about the condemnatory judgements others would throw his way. The pornstar had been called every ugly name under the sun: whore, slut, druggie, fag—they didn’t bother him anymore. So why?—he wondered. Why did that red, cheshire-cat-wannabe mother fucker get under his skin so effortlessly? He felt his cheeks grow hot from what he concluded in his mind to be anger, though his friend blatantly disagreed.

“You’re blushin, Angie.” She giggled, causing her friend to snap back to reality, hiding his face as he downed the rest of his drink.

“It’s cause you’re getting me drunk, you crazy-pyro bitch!” Cherri’s joyful laughter echoed through the living room, her natural vibrato reverberated off the walls. Despite the embarrassment, Angel smiled and laughed along. His friend’s laughter had always been perpetually infectious; being around her never failed at lifting him from his lowest points.

There was always a resolute warmth when it came to Cherri. Her undying spirit always seemed to envelop him in a secure cocoon of easement. She always managed to make the best of the worst situations, finding humor in tragic circumstances, and bringing them to attention to lighten the mood. He admired how she remained steadfast in her convictions throughout the years, unlike him, who had thrown his to the wayside. Together they walked a fine line, with him on one side, his transmutations out to show, and, on the other, her and her preservation. From the moment she fell down here, she remained unchanging through the turmoils and tribulations this bastardized existence threw at her. He’d do anything to protect it—protect her. Once the chatter died down, Angel set the bottle on the coffee table with a content sigh.

“He said some stupid quote that I heard Allen say once.” He tossed the additional information over her shoulder as if it were a discardable wrapper, but Cherri cocked the side of her singular eyebrow in intrigue. Angel sat back, resting his upper hands behind his head as his second pair rested in his lap, fingers twiddling together, “some stupid bullshit ‘bout taking responsibility for myself.” He rolled his eyes in annoyance. Unlike Allen, Alastor’s invocation of responsibility came across as cold and unsympathetic, it left the once encouraging statement tainted. His eyes were beginning to water again at the memory. Oh no—not again. Lurching forward, he shook his head brashly as if to shake the memory out of this mind before it could trigger the waterworks again.

“Fuck him.” He muttered bitterly, crossing his arms with a huff, “I don’t wanna to talk about it anymore…” The spider concluded, his eyes tracing over the other contents on the table. “Ya’ craftin’ some explosives before I got here?”

“Yeah…I was preparing for a job I have this weekend.” Cherri got up, grabbing Angel’s empty bottle and taking them over to the kitchen trash, tossing them in, “I can just start them tomorrow.” Angel picked up some of the explosive powder, holding an empty bomb capsule between his knees as he syphoned the powder down into the pipe. His second pair reached for the other pieces he would need.

“I’ll help ya’…” He offered, already getting to work before she could protest, a stout confidence behind his offer of assistance. She wouldn’t truly mind his help, he was the only other soul who knew exactly how she liked them built. Cherri smiled, grabbing two more cold beers from the fridge and bringing them over. She sat back down next to him: the only soul in the nine circles she could assuredly call a friend, placing the beers on the floor by their feet.

“Thanks, Angie.” She smiled, before grabbing her own materials and getting to work herself.

“It’s been a helluva long time since we last did somethin’ like this...” Angel began, capping off a PVC pipe he had stuffed to the brim with explosive powder and broken shrapnel, “I kinda miss the good ol’ days.” Taping the battery pack in place, he set it down, leaning back as he succumbed to the reverie, “remember our old place?—on the east side?” Cherri didn’t bother to look up from the bomb she crafted, her cheerful nature faltering slightly. The look on her face, as least, to the best of Angel’s interpretation, showed her sadness of the time that had passed—of the times they resided together.

“Yeah...” She vaguely responded. Click. Another PVC pip was capped, and a battery pack fastened, “if it weren’t for Val, we probably still would be.” The bitterness in her tone sliced through his pleasant trip down memory lane, and he frowned slightly. She almost seemed to resent him for setting out on his own, as if he had left her behind. It wasn’t just her that missed those times.

“Hey, it’s not like it was my idea.” Cherri sighed in retort to Angel’s defensive rebuke of the blame her inflection seemed to place on him, “Val wanted me closer to the studio...and besides-” A gentle nudge to her bicep finally pulled her eye from the empty PVC pipe in her hand, “with all the guys I was bringin’ home, ya’ wouldn’t have gotten any sleep.” The cheeky grin he bore ignited a similar parting of her lips, and a feathery laugh.

“You skank.” She teased. Angel erupted in a barrage of his mischievous cackles.

* * *

They spent the rest of the afternoon making copious amounts of explosives for the blonde pyromaniac, often taking breaks to get snacks, watch a little TV, and talk. As night overtook the land, the living room was filled with every kind of explosive that could possibly be constructed, all neatly sealed and ready for use. Cherri looked at the time displayed on her phone screen.

“It’s getting late, we should hit the sack.” Angel nodded, sitting up straight and stretching his back, sore from hunching over the coffee table for hours. Cherri got up, walking down the hall, leaving Angel to sit on the couch in quiet confusion. After a minute of still silence, she came back, tossing him a long t-shirt to use as pajamas. Angel smiled, holding the shirt in his arms.

“Thanks, suga-tits.” His tone was playful, pulling an endearing smile from her.

“Sleep well, you cry-baby bitch.” With that, she flicked off the light switch and disappeared back down the hall.

Angel stripped down in her living room, setting his clothes neatly aside before putting on the long t-shirt, the soft material draping down to his mid thighs. His second pair of arms would have to remain inside the shirt, but he didn’t mind, he was grateful to have something else to sleep in other than his fitted jacket and constricting skirt.

He peered out the living room window, out to the freckles of distant city lights that splayed across the black slate of hell’s horizon. In hell no stars dusted the night sky, leaving only the lonesome red moon that seemed to struggle to provide barely any brilliance plastered against the dark, barren canvas. The city lights were the only means close enough to the stars he barely remembered from his human life, flickering in rapid succession across the breadth of the city, but no more than a cheap replacement.

His own mind flickered yet again back to that abhorrent interaction, a wave of mortification washed over him again. He’d have to return to the hotel eventually. He couldn’t, as much as he wanted to, hide away here for eternity. Dread constricted his lungs at the notion of seeing Alastor again, who, he guessed, was probably wracking his brain in confusion for Angel’s foray of tearful emotions. Angel knew he would have to explain himself—that the reaction Alastor’s words had pulled from him had nothing to do with him at all, and just hope the overlord wouldn’t interrogate any further than that.

No matter, that was something he would worry about come morning.

Knowing the apartment like the back of his hands, he walked over to a storage closet by the front door, pulling out a blanket he had expected to find. He took it back to the couch, unfurling it and snuggling into it as he got comfortable. The welcoming nothingness of sleep washed over the tired spider in an instant of comforting blackness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pardon the lack of updates, and if this update feels a tad uninspired, but I suffered a rather unexpected loss that stalled all of my productivity. On Sunday, November 1st, I noticed my 5-year-old cat Jade had a swollen jaw. Although startled, I calmly gathered her and took her to the vet, where they told me it was just a minor infection. They promptly gave her an antibiotic and an anti-inflammatory and sent us on our way. For a day or so I believed all was well, until she began throwing up any food she ate. A bit more concerned, I scheduled another follow up appointment for Thursday afternoon, but we wouldn’t make it till then.
> 
> As I sat at my work desk Thursday morning, fingers drumming against the surface as I counted down the hours until I could leave and take her to the vet, I got a call from my roommate.
> 
> “Jade’s having trouble breathing.” My heart plummeted like a slab of broken concrete. I dropped all that I was doing and hurried home. On the afternoon of Thursday, November 5th, I rushed my cat Jade to the ER.
> 
> And, as I rushed her to the ER, hearing her desperate gasps for even a modicum of air, I felt what could only be described as maternal panic—a mother watching her child die before her eyes, and failing to do anything to stop it; to heal it; to make it better; not knowing what was wrong in the first place. Maternal, that’s the only way to describe it, after all, that’s how much I loved her—she was my baby.
> 
> A day of testing went by, where they discovered a mass in her chest, pressing against her lungs and trachea. A little hope, however, came when they said it might be operable, and with the generous support of my friends and family, I was able to foot the nine-thousand dollar bill it would incur. I was ready—ready to fight for her, and I was pugilistically hopeful for the outcome, until we got the pathology results back:
> 
> Malignant lymphoma and Feline Leukemia positive. 
> 
> With that, the last of my hope was ripped away in an instant as the doctors told me that even if she managed to survive the risky surgery, she more than likely wouldn’t have lived long enough for her surgery wound to heal. Upon receiving that phone call, I had cried harder than I had ever in my twenty-one years of living. So loudly, so forceful, it was if I had believed that if I have wailed hard enough, and that if there was a god above us, that he would take pity on me and wake me from this nightmare.
> 
> But no such blessing was granted. She was slowly suffocating under that growing mass, so there was only one other thing that could be done. 
> 
> On the night of Friday, November 6th, I had to make the most soul shattering decision of my life. I had to put an end to my baby’s suffering in the worst way possible. But it was peaceful; I held her, and sang to her as she went. I know that I made the best decision for her. Even so, it does little to quell the desolation I feel inside. Though there is a cavernous hole in my heart, my chest feels heavy at even the faintest remembrance of those harrowing days. It’s hard to focus, as my mind involuntarily drifts back to those moments of panic and devastation if I fail to distract myself for too long.
> 
> It’s painfully ironic—to suffer such a tragic, and jarring loss in the midst of writing a story solely based around the idea of loss. It’s so fucking ironic, that upon such a realization I had laughed through bitterly clenched teeth. Nevertheless, it has plunged me into a new view of the idea of loss; a deeper, darker perspective that I was not prepared to see, not personally. This perspective I’ve gained: of sudden loss—of something or someone being ripped from your unsuspecting hands in an instant, will certainly provide me with a spring board of first hand experience to launch myself into a new form of writing.
> 
> However, please be patient, as I am having a hard time pushing back the heavy curtains of grief and continuing creatively. The staggering event of living in complete normalcy, to incurring a devastating loss in a matter of days, has left me in an unrelenting state of numbness and despondency. I will be okay, I just need a bit of time to recover emotionally. I have no intention of abandoning the story (After all, I have nearly thirty rough-drafted chapters in at this point) but updates might be a bit sparse for a little while, as I will be rejuvenating myself with binging animes, reading, and spending time with my roommates and their cats. 
> 
> If anyone has any good novel or anime recommendations, feel free to share. You can reach me on Twitter at @SinfulSickness. 
> 
> Gratefully yours, 
> 
> Your friendly neighborhood sinner~


	5. The Rose Wall and The Wren

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am deeply grateful for your patience and kind words as I navigated my way through the hardest weeks of my life. I am slowly introducing myself back into my regular routine, but it is still hard to ignore the vacuity that remains. Thank you for those who reached out privately and in the comments. It’s uplifting to not only have your support personally, but for my work and story as well. So again, I thank you.
> 
> I thought it would be cool to mention that I’m actually working on my first ever novel. It’s a psychological thriller about a malicious entity that slowly corrupts my main character’s morals and sanity. It’s unsure whether or not it’s all in her mind or not, and I do not want to spoil anymore. I presented a short story version of it to a mixed group of published authors and amateur writers in my state, and they told me to take it and run with it, so I will do just that. 
> 
> To any fellow writers on here, I suggest finding a writers group. It’s a wonderful way to find a community, as well as share and improve your skills. I have the opportunity to have other writers not only read my work, but critique, edit, and show me where I can grow (apparently I tend to use an excess of adverbs, so I’m going to work on that). You can use the app MeetUp as well, and join virtual events with groups not confined to your immediate area. It’s amazing!
> 
> But I digress, here is what you all are really here for.
> 
> I wanted to leave a note up front as a **WARNING**. This chapter contains hard-hitting topics such as racism, homophobia, and child abuse. This will be my only chapter note warning from here on. For future reference, this story will contain several intense topics:
> 
> \- Mental/Physical Abuse  
> \- Domestic/Child Abuse  
> \- Sexual Assault  
> \- Racism  
> \- Homophobia
> 
> I agonized for weeks over how I chose to present this, and made countless changes and revisions. With the times our characters grew up in (primarily the 20’s-40’s), it seemed almost unavoidable.
> 
> Honestly, I’m considering changing the rating of this story to Explicit.
> 
> \- Your friendly neighborhood sinner

* * *

The hot, humid weather ravaged the upper class New Orleans neighborhood. With the summer season in full swing, the sun assailed the city with her boiling force as if she sought a personal vendetta. The generosity of the season produced an abundant array of wildlife. The forest, unadulterated and natural only a mere fifteen yards behind the row of Edwardian estates and their well mannered, man-reared landscapes, had turned to a homogenous mass of effervescent green. Hardy and robust perfumes of healthy soil, and the lingering breath of a summer shower from the day before, swaddled the senses to an almost complacent persuasion. Neighborhood kids chased each other up and down the cobblestone streets, squealing, laughing, and enjoying each other's company as they avoided capture in a game of tag.

At the corner of the street stood a proud Edwardian home, the walls coated with a fresh layer of soft blue paint. White ionic columns and porch balusters stood stoical, like loyal guards on watch for any potential danger that could interfere with the home, and the neighborhood kids remarked that the wrap around porch reminded them of a white icing border swirling around the canvass of a blue birthday cake. Its lively silhouette was truly something to behold, with tall towers looming above domed roof top pavilions, the walls lined with oriel windows. Every methodical detail captured attention, from the meticulously crafted, white spindle work, to the ornate stained glass windows that adorned the front door. Its colors, though not depicting any discernible image, seemed to tickle at the imagination with its spectrum of colors.

An iron fence, barely surpassing four feet in height, engirdled the property, laced from bottom rail to finial with the thorny canes of Alba rose bushes; the lady of the household's prized plants. Beneath the umbrella of a flowering tulipwood in the front yard, Allen sat, protected from the sun’s blare as he read.

Slim and angular, he looked older than his actual age, twelve; perhaps it was the manner in which he carried himself. He wore a light cotton shirt, not a wrinkle or string out of place, matched with a brown pair of trousers. His shoes, shiny and well taken care of, were off; set next to him with his socks tucked neatly inside. He brushed back a loose strand of his dark mahogany hair from his vision.

His chocolate brown eyes traced the page through his thin-rimmed glasses as he tried to block out the racket the frolicking children were making. Alas, the clamor pushed and pulled his attention every which way, and kept him from his novel. A gleeful shriek from one of the other kids caught him by surprise. The outburst had pulled him from his immersion, and he frowned in annoyance.

 _If only they could see how moronic they look running around like that._

In the safety of his mind, he was permitted to think whatever he wanted without the worry of repercussions. The other kids looked like the chickens that often escaped the farming properties nearby, running amok as if they had not an active brain cell in their heads, or a care in the world. Sometimes, the chickens would run out into the road and be struck by a motor vehicle in a combustion of blood and feathers, and he found himself wishing the children the same fates. Not necessarily out of malice, but for a scientific curiosity. Perhaps he could finally understand them if he got a look inside—at all the fleshy cogs and inner workings. How easy would that be to see in a fast-flying Chevrolet? 

_Easy!_ He theorized. _Chevrolet—easy to start—easy to steer—light pedal action—easy to shift gears—easy to ride in—easy to stop!_

He chuckled at the vivid memory of that advertisement of the painted lady in her Sunday best, posted up in the driver's seat of the new Chevrolet Coupe and looking straight at the reader. She should’ve been looking at the road instead of her blissful, far off gaze. But he supposed that people could do such things when they were allowed to live carelessly. Every time Mother and him spotted that advertisement in the papers, they’d burst into that synchronized chant, and giggled between themselves. Father joked that they ought to put their skills to use and apply to market for them. Allen shrugged off the memory with a hum, and turned back to analyze the group of kids down the street.

He couldn’t comprehend their blissfully ignorant nature, or their youthful hierarchy, and these discrepancies had banished him to the social outlands. On several occasions, the neighborhood kids had rebuked him, relegating him to be the brunt of their cruel jokes. And it was just for what those jokes were directed towards that left him mazed.

As Mother often told him, ‘don’t let their words sway you, Allen’, but all was easier said than done. Although she’d attempt to encourage his pride with loving praise, her honeyed words were often suppressed to silence when he stood before the condemnatory stares of some strangers who knew nothing about him, other than how he looked. And, though Allen tried not to notice, the accusatory stares that fired their spite at his family when they walked the streets on what should be joyous family outings left him with the stifling sensation of isolation.

He didn’t understand. Mother and Father were respectable people. Father, of whom he was proud to be told he was the spitting image of, was an educated, well-read man; reserved, cerebral, and hard working. He had worked tooth and nail to procure a comfortable living for them all; the life he had promised Mother when they fled to New Orleans long before Allen even entered into this world. After warring through the drudgery of medical school, he earned himself an estimable position at the Hospital of Saint John, where he had struggled to acquire the respect of his colleagues with his diligence and intellect.

Mother, whom Allen always tended to favor, was a kind soul, understanding and patient, and wonderfully quick on her feet. She carried herself with grace and dignity, and stood proudly against those who snuck in their grievances about their family with backhanded compliments and snide commentary.

There was Mrs. Carter for one, a snobbish old crone from down the street. She often stopped by to admire the roses Mother doted over, and couldn’t help but give her unnecessary two cents, prattling on until ears bled, more often than not about Mother’s marriage.

He must’ve been around nine at the time, but he vividly remembered Mother—her patience for once wearing thin—looking up from the bush she was pruning, and smiling sweetly in the face of that bilious old woman and her disdain.

_“Even so, at least I know where my husband is this time of day, Mrs. Carter.”_

Bless Mother and her quick wit. Allen remembered that he desperately tried to suppress the snickers towards Mrs. Carter’s flustered expression as she hid her face behind her bone fan and hurried off, for once in her life completely silent. Allen liked to think that she headed straight to the local speakeasies to search for her drunkard of a husband, and in finding him, pulled him in his pie-eyed state off the floor, or off another woman. Mother and him chuckled between themselves and went about their business.

Although, not all the interactions were as orderly.

There was always one horrid day in particular that burned an envied spot in his permanent memory, unceasingly rearing its ugly head. On an anomalously warm autumn day, he and Mother set out, browsing the displays in passing store windows as they completed their errands. Just turning six, he felt grown escorting Mother down the thoroughfare. All seemed well; the tune of a local street band had carried them across the pavement, and made each step lighter than air. Mother had riveting conversation with a few of her acquaintances they came upon—well, not to Allen. His young self was much more captivated with the street band, and constantly tugged on Mother’s skirt to get closer. He wanted to put a coin from Mother’s purse in the overturned cap perched front and center. Each time Mother would brush his grip from her dress and reprimand him for his impatient behavior, then continue on in her conversation.

It was halfway through their enjoyable outing that Mother was accosted in the street by a spiteful group of brutes, hurling words of which stuck to the mind like the brambles of sticker weeds into the fabric of a cotton pant leg.

“You’ve got some nerve parading yourselves around like this! Like ya’ own the place!” One of them stepped forward, glowering down at Allen, who, with his minute stature, perceived this man as a fearsome titan towering twenty feet overhead, raining down on him a hatred of which he could not comprehend the source. Mother kept him close, a reassuring hand pressing him to the starched skirt of her dress as she addressed the churlish leader. As she did, Allen analyzed him.

Allen knew the man by name—Lawrence Bleeker.

He was a stockier fellow, with dry, straw hair, and sun-sensitive skin that always brought forth the red undertones in his cheeks and nose, and made him look disheveled and sunburned. Bleeker was all too vocal with his contempt for his family, and for Father’s medicinal practice, emphatically decreeing that a man like Father had no business working in a field meant for intelligent people when he clearly had no sense of brains or morals. Morals?—Ironic how he preached about ‘sense’ when there was clearly none in the babble that spewed from Bleeker’s lips—not now, not ever. And besides, Father was intelligent, just as much as his fellow doctors; if Bleeker took a moment of observation, he would see that. But it seemed that he was more interested in picking fights than opening his mind to reason.

“ _Bitch!_ ” That word brought Allen back to the moment, his fists balled into the fabric of Mother’s skirt. He wasn’t exactly certain about what that word meant, but Mother had told him that it was a terrible word, and a vile one to refer to a lady by.

“You can’t talk to my mother like that!” He retorted the best his infantile dialect could allow. The group merely laughed at him, and Mother pulled him even closer, sending him a silent signal not to say another word.

“You should really keep a muzzle on this filthy kid.” Bleeker tisked before resting his hands on his knees as he leveled his gaze with Allen, “a big mouth like that can get you in a lot of trouble.” Allen could vaguely see his own wide eyed expression mirrored in Bleeker’s deep green eyes, and his nostrils flared at the bitter stench of liquor on the man’s breath.

“Keep away from my son—leave him out of this.” Mother pushed the man away from him, as Bleeker was getting far too close for comfort. Her voice was stern and hostile, but low and composed. Bleeker stumbled a bit, his motor skills clumsy owing to a round of afternoon drinking, before his face contorted into a hideous display of aggression.

In a single second, as Allen bore horrified witness, the altercation turned physical and Bleeker extended his hand. His open palm collided harshly with Mother’s face, who had let out a sharp yelp of surprise, and crashed backward into the street with a thud against the stone. Her pained shriek was a clean, sharp sound, like the snap of a bone or the crash of a glass bowl against tile flooring. It seemed to break time in two for Allen, and drew a line in the dirt; on one side, leaving the past behind withholding his childish virtue, and on the other, a new, heinous future, one his eyes were forcefully opened to behold. Blood had drizzled down from her nostrils, spattering onto the blouse of her dress; a blue, percale frock where the hue bounced off her brown skin with a weightless, radiant appearance. It was her favorite daily garb—suitable for going out and comfortable to cook and clean in, she’d say—and whenever Allen pictured Mother, he would always frame her in that blue frock. Now it was stained and ruined. Dirt and discarded motor oil from the street marred the delicate, blue fabric in nasty bovine splotches.

Upon the strike, a few bystanders had finally stepped in and warded Bleeker and his goons off, but, as far as Allen was concerned, the damage had already been done. And he, with only the feeble resources of a young child, was helpless to defend his mother. He felt the urge to cry churn at the back of his throat.

He watched as she staggered to her feet, to lost in the shock of it all to even think to assist. She withheld an air of levelheadedness as she brushed herself off, but someone as close by as Allen, he could see the tremors her hands made. All at once, his wits returned, and Allen picked up Mother’s bag and dug through it, dutifully handing her a handkerchief. She took it, and quietly intercepted the trail of blood that dribbled from her nostrils. 

“W—why did he do that?” Allen was quick to ask, his voice wavering as he battled that instinct to cry. 

She didn’t respond to Allen’s question, only taking him by the hand and continuing on home. Her strides were poised, but quickly paced; he understood that she wanted them far from the scene, and neglected to push his inquiry again. Allen took a moment to glance back at the brutish man, forcefully being ushered off by the bystanders who stepped in. Bleeker seemed to turn his malice to them now, the encounter he perpetrated in the back of his mind.

The muscles of Allen’s face contorted into a malign glower, only as vicious looking as his young mein could allow. The rounded innocence of his childlike face, and the tears budding in the corners of his eyes, veiled the feeling that bubbled under the skin. It occurred to him that he wished for something horrible to happen to Bleeker. Allen couldn’t figure out exactly what, but he knew it would have to be something horrible.

He and Mother walked several blocks in silence. A few passersby stopped her to inquire if she was alright, concerned by her disheveled look, to which she’d force a small smile and lie with a convincing ‘oh yes, I’m alright, thank you.’

She paused as they reached the corner of Almonaster and Claiborne, waiting for the barreling Packards and Fords to stop and let them cross. Mother met Allen’s silent, but inquisitive stare with a sideways glance, and he looked down and away from her as if he was caught doing something he shouldn’t. An audible sigh escaped her lips, and, as the line of cars stopped, engines revving in eagerness like snorting bulls to start again, she guided him across, their hands clasped together. It was then, that she finally answered his question.

“Some people are just so full of hate and anger, Allen, they can’t help but burst at the seams and take it out on other people.” Mother watched the street with a wary, maternal vigilance for any vehicular dangers, “what matters is we don’t let them drag us down to their level. They’ll get their dues someday.” Hate and anger?—for what? Allen watched as Mother dabbed the little, square cloth at the unrelenting trickle of blood falling from her nose with her free hand. She was solemn, the jovial air from their outing had been expelled now. Allen nodded, not because he understood what she meant, but because he wanted to cut the conversation short and hurry her home. Father was at home and he could treat her. But no, he wasn’t satisfied with such an answer.

The entire situation had left Allen in a state of blistering anger, the potent rage condensed in his tiny capsule ready to burst. Upon their return home, he had informed Father with a particularized account. He expected Father to fly off the handle, to roar and rage for justice on behalf of his battered wife. Instead, Father had calmly tended to Mother’s bruises and nosebleed, held her and kissed her briefly, and Mother headed into the kitchen to prepare lunch, a morose cloud trailing her all the way.

Allen had questioned Father a tad too emphatically about his composure, astounded by his lack of fire. Father simply turned to him, his stare stern. Anger surely did flare in Father’s eyes. Allen could see it thrashing like a flame contained only by the kindle it was allowed, but damned desperate to spread further. It was with that caged back anger, he simply stated.

“We’ll discuss this later.” 

With that, Father turned to go help Mother prepare lunch, something he rarely did. The only other time Allen had ever watched Father assist Mother in her household chores was when they received word that his aunt had died, and Mother was distraught over the loss. The rest of the day was spent as if the event had never happened; Mother had seemed to sweep her assault under the rug. Ice cream was presented to him after lunch to lighten the mood, and, though he lacked any true desire for it—he didn’t care too much for sweets—he took it gratefully to not upset her. It seemed to please her, and with a smile she carried through the day. She almost had fooled him were it not for Allen straying past his parent’s closed door later that evening, where he heard the soft, but distinct sounds of Mother’s weeping.

He couldn’t understand; the frustrations surmounted and formulated into an emotion new to him. But above all else, he hated to see Mother upset.

And it was because of that, he preferred being alone. All the better to avoid any encounters that Mother would fret over. And honestly, he didn’t mind the sequestration, or the cold shun from the rest of the neighborhood kids. He enjoyed his novels, and listened to the radio whenever his parents permitted him to. As he grew, he found that some novels answered the questions his parents wouldn’t, and found escape in fictions more whimsical and fantastical than the world around him. His own mind provided him with the solace he needed; he trusted it to lead him to a safe escape. Sometimes he’d find himself staring off into the oblivion, captivated by an errant leaf, or gazing in awe when the evening sun penetrated through the stained glass and splayed a palette of rainbow lights across the front entry’s parquet flooring.

Another ear-racking squeal from the traipsing children cut cleanly through his thoughts. Allen looked up to the children. A warm feeling of satisfaction flourished in his chest as one of the boys tripped and crashed into the ground, erupting into wails as he held his battered knee. He watched on as who he could only assume was the boy's mother emerged from one of the homes across the street at the frantic conduct of another boy. She swooped up the battered child and carried him into their home, the boy crying the entire way. All a bit dramatic, in Allen’s opinion.

"Dullards..." He muttered as the remaining children went back to their game. He grew sick of watching them.

Instead, he directed his hearing to the anthem of the male Carolina Wren, who had taken his post in the branches overhead. The miniature bird, adorned in rusted brown feathers spotted in speckles of white, hopped to and fro along the branch, blasting his stentorian song out for the entire neighborhood to hear. He looked up at the objectionable bird, who’s call he had likened to that of a toy-like ambulance siren. It bounded across the branches, never staying in place for more than a second as he shrieked amongst the greenish-yellow blossoms that dwarfed him in size. Allen couldn’t tell if the dissonant chirrup was intended to lure in a mate, or drive all other avifauna away. Whatever the intent, it seemed that the latter was the outcome.

Allen craned his head back to lean against the tree as he listened to the wren, the rough textured bark pressing against his scalp. The somnolent heat lulled his eyes to a gentle close. Behind this barricade of thorns and roses came an impression of security and solitude that he never felt the need to breach. He’d have no quarrel with spending the rest of his days like this.

"Hey!" A perky and noticeably east coast accent pulled him from his near slumber. Allen peeled his eyes back open, surprised to meet another curious baby blue pair. A child, his age, or perhaps a couple years younger, peeked at him from over the rose bushes, his dark hair wild and long, falling below his ears.

"Watcha' doin?” he questioned.

"Reading."

"Whatcha' readin?"

Allen looked back down at his book.

"A book..."

"What kind'a book?" he inquired, making Allen scowl, eyeing the younger boy in vexation.

"Why don't you go play with the other kids," he dismissed him to the group down the street, his irritation as thick in his tone as his cajun accent. The blue eyed boy looked to the group, before shaking his head.

"They don't want me ta' play with them...I ain't really from 'round here. My dad's here cause'a work..." Allen tuned out the voice, and went back to quietly reading, his face buried behind his book.

Allen was purposefully trying to ignore him, hoping to send him the message to leave him be. His ears perked at the squeaking creak of his garden gate being opened. He looked up from his shield of paper and ink, his jaw nearly falling to the ground, agast. The young boy entered through the gate he took the liberty of unlocking, and let himself in. 

_He just let himself in!_

Allen snapped his book closed with one hand and stood, irritated at the gall of this strange kid. The young kid walked up to him, a jolly smile on his face as if he hadn't just crossed a hundred of Allen's boundaries.

"Y-you're trespassing!" Allen shrieked, gesturing to the gate that was still hanging open. It irked him to see such a gaping hole in his rampart of thorns and leaves. The smile on the young boy’s face only seemed to grow wider, a gap in his teeth where his right upper canine used to be. He giggled at the flustered brunette.

"Can I sit witcha'? I won't bother ya' readin'—I promise." 

Allen looked the stubborn gap-toothed kid up and down, who looked back up at him with aggravatingly pleading eyes. He was left reeling in confusion over why this kid was still pestering him. Most kids would have left him alone by now, or would have already avoided him in the first place. Without the obstruction of the fence, he could now espy that the boy was rather scrawny for what he guessed his age to be. His skin was a pale cream, akin to the elongated clusters of cherry laurel flowers that Allen would find in the deepest recesses of the forests behind his house; their sweet scent always indicated that the warm seasons were upon him.

"If I say no, will you leave?" Allen groaned when the young boy shook his head no. "Well I don't have much of a choice then, do I..." 

He sat back down in an annoyed huff, opening his book again as the other kid sat next to him.

"I'm Anthony..." the strange boy introduced himself, "Anthony Russo."

Allen felt obligated to return the favor out of politeness. After all, his parents raised him to mind his manners.

"Allen....Broussard." Allen reluctantly gave his name, before sticking his nose back into his book.

For a couple minutes, they sat in silence, half a foot from each other. Allen mentally sighed in relief at the peace and quiet. Maybe this kid would actually remain silent and let him read like he promised.

"Why ain't _you_ playin' with the rest of the kids?"

_Nope._

Allen looked up brashly, clearly irked, his frown prominent on his russet face. He marked his page and closed the book again, softer than before.

"I don’t want to play with those idiots. I'd rather read." 

His tone was cold, still upset that his precious reading was interrupted yet again. Anthony looked to the group of kids and chuckled, nodding in agreement.

"Yeah, those kids are a bunch of rich fuckin' assholes anyway." 

Allen recoiled slightly as if he had been struck by the words from Anthony’s lips, taken aback at the boorish language. If he had dared to speak like that, and Mother, god forbid, heard him, she would certainly wash his mouth out with a bar of soap and send him to bed without supper.

"Ya' seem alrigh' though..." Anthony turned back to him and smiled, before peeking down at the book in his lap.

Anthony’s eyes traced the words on the book's cover several times, nose scrunched in concentration. His eyes cycled back again and again; it was as if he was unable to decipher the title of the book. Allen noticed the boy's struggle, studying him in intrigue. Did Anthony not know how to read?

"Are you able to read?" He questioned, his voice losing a bit of his hostility.

Anthony blushed, probably from embarrassment, looking down to the grass and shaking his head.

"My pops doesn't really have time to teach me." He huffed, pouting his lip slightly, "my big brotha' teaches me and my sista' the best he can..." 

Allen cocked an eyebrow in a mix of surprise and concern. He didn't attend a proper school?

"What about your mother? Surely she cares about your education." Allen questioned rather brusquely, a feeling of regret washing over him about his hasty inquiry when Anthony's spunky attitude fell away, his gaze at the grass growing solemn.

"My mom died..." Anthony picked at the grass in front of him.

As he avoided eye contact, Anthony dissected the blades with his nails, manipulating them between his fingers before casting them into the breeze, and then plucking another. Behind those staid eyes seemed to withhold a deeper truth surrounding what little he said. Allen, though curious, restrained another inquiry that had coiled itself on the tip of his tongue, aching to launch out of his mouth.

_How?_

"I-I'm sorry I didn't mean to-" He was interrupted by Anthony launching his gaze back up to meet his, a wide grin forced onto his face, though sorrowful tears pricked the corners of his eyes.

"S'all good, Al!" he chirped. "What about ya', got any brothas' or sistas'?" Allen was shocked at his comeback. Anthony obviously yearned to cry, and yet, he kept his smile beaming. How odd.

"Why are you smiling so much?" He questioned, his tone suspicious. Anthony brushed the corners of his eyes with the knuckle of his finger to be rid of the unshed tears.

"Funny, I was gonna ask ya' why ya' ain't." He chuckled, "ya' know, I've seen ya' 'round town a few times, and you're always lookin' soooo gloomy." Anthony nudged Allen’s arm.

As if instinctual, Allen squinched at the sudden physical interaction. He harbored a disrelish for touch from others, except for his parents. Anthony pulled back harshly in response, his hands held up in almost an act of peace. It was clear to him that Anthony was just as surprised with his reaction as he was with the contact. Allen huffed, adjusting his glasses that balanced on the end of his sharp nose.

"What’s the point." He muttered bitterly. Stereopticon images of jeering, condemnatory glares clouded his mind’s eye. Those hateful formulations of Lawrence Bleeker and Mrs. Carter casted their looming shadows upon him.

A gentle hum of acknowledgement erupted from Anthony’s throat. It wasn’t certain if it was by mere distraction, or something more transcendental, but the clouds momentarily parted, and the images faded. He watched as Anthony looked up at the blue sky, leaning against the tree. His delicately blue eyes withheld a distant sorrow that captured Allen's attention. For a moment, Anthony was still and quiet. A somber, warm breeze lazed by, carding its inconspicuous fingers through Anthony’s wild, black hair; swaying like tall, charcoal grass in a field not yet cultivated by man. Was he thinking about something? Allen found himself enamoured with wanting to know what was running through his mind. As if he had received his divine wisdom from some cosmic interjection, he finally turned away from the sky, and back to Allen.

"Yeah..." Anthony began, "I get it...life fuckin' sucks keister..." Allen cringed at such crass language, but let him continue. “But when life makes me sad, I find things that make me happy. You can too.” Allen’s nose bunched at the ignorant statement.

“Oh yeah, like what?”

“Well, ya’ like readin’ dontcha?” He gestured to the book in Allen’s hands.

“I suppose.”

“What do ya’ like about it?” Allen paused to ponder his answer, looking to the leather-bound book in his hand.

“It’s nice to escape into other worlds once in a while.” Just as he brushed the thought away, he situated the book in the grass beside him, “But Father says I need to put down these frivolous, fictional books and focus on living my life.”

“Ain’t doin’ things that make you happy a part of livin’ life?” Allen didn’t feel swayed by what he deemed to be a scant argument.

 _This is foolish_ , Allen thought to himself. This odd boy seemed unperturbed by his obvious signs that he’d rather be left alone. Was this just ignorance, or blatant disregard? Anthony continued on.

“What else do ya’ like?” Allen blew a hot puff of air through his nostrils, and remained quiet. “Ya’ wanna know what I like?” Anthony asked. 

Allen only shrugged, uninterested. 

“I like this place. There are a lot of cool things; it smells nicer than New York; it feels like there’s magic ev’rywhere ‘round here. And I like those weird donuts ya’ guys have down here. The ones with the powdered sugar.”

“You mean...beignets?” 

“Yeah! _Ben-yays_.”

Allen could not figure out why, perhaps he found the dopiness of his words amusing, but he felt the instinct to laugh swell in the depths of his belly. He slapped a hand over his mouth as the giggles erupted. Anthony didn’t seem to mind being laughed at, his own intermixing with Allen’s. When they died down, Anthony sighed, seeming satisfied with the reaction he pulled from Allen.

“Ya’ know, when I was really little, my ma would let me play with her makeup when she was gussyin’ up to go out.” Anthony put a cheeky finger to his lips, “pops would get real mad if he saw me, so ma said we should keep it a secret, but it made me happy.” Allen scanned the young boy’s face, finding it hard to envision him with painted lips and lashes, “ma said that doin’ things that make you happy can’t ever be wrong.” Allen returned to his melancholic demeanor. 

“It’s not that simple.” He turned his head to look away.

The minute impact of something against his head almost sent him reeling in shock. Hand pressed against the area of affliction, he turned back to Anthony, and saw his face stern and his hand outstretched; his finger coiled to flick the side of his head again.

_H-he flicked me?!_

"Listen up, sour puss! Don’t be disrespectin’ my ma’! She knew what she was talkin’ about! She says ya’ gotta give ya'self ya' own reason ta’ smile, or life’s gonna make ya’ go crazy." Anthony’s smile was bright again, but his blue eyes withheld a deep sadness that Allen found hard to ignore, "when ya’ smile in the face of jackasses tryin’ to beat ya’ down, they think ‘damn, this fucker’s really strong’, ya’ know.” Allen’s mind washed to a blank slate; he found himself stumbling to formulate a response. He remained silent, so Anthony rambled on, “ya' gotta keep smilin’ through the bullshit-"

"TONY!" Allen watched his converser freeze, his body tensing as a gruff, angry voice hollered for him menacingly from across the street. He watched the younger boy's personality switch on a dime; from animated and bubbly, to quiet and withdrawn. Allen watched as he shot to his feet, keeping his gaze down at the ground.

"I—I gotta go..." Anthony spoke quietly, his tenor wavering.

Allen was appalled to see the emotion of fear completely overtake him, stifling the endearing flame of such an eccentric personality. He wanted to do something quickly to bring back the boy that, despite the rather irritating introduction, he kind of enjoyed talking to. Before he knew it, he had reached out, grabbing Anthony’s wrist before he could walk off. For just a moment, time, in spite of her unrelenting demand to march forward, paused for him.

"Hey..." Allen spoke quietly so as to not alert the source of the voice, "every Saturday I spend my afternoon at the library. You are welcome to join me if you are able." He offered, his words tumbling out impulsively, “I—I could help you with your reading.” Anthony looked to him, at first surprised by the sudden offer, his eyes drowning in fear, and then, he smiled again.

"Sure thing, Al." Allen nodded and watched as the boy exited his front yard, closing the gate behind him. Allen rushed to his feet, unconcerned with the dew glazed grass that stuck to his heels and toes, and hurried to the fence, peeking over the flowers and leaves.

"God damn it, I told ya' to wait in the fuckin' car!" Across the street stood a looming, burly man, concealed in a large coat despite the sweltering heat. He wore a large brimmed pork pie hat, which withheld his face from Allen's sight. Allen watched as Anthony walked across the street to the livid man, keeping his head down. The man berated the young boy angrily in a language that Allen couldn't understand, but after a cursory moment of analysis, he guessed it to be Italian.

“Sorry dad, but it was really hot in there.” Anthony protested.

Reaching out with a thick-fingered hand adorned in gaudy rings, the adult grabbed Anthony roughly by his shirt collar, shaking him aggressively. It looked as if Anthony’s frail neck would snap from the thrashing, and his head would roll right off his shoulders. As the man tugged on his shirt, continuing his verbal tirade, Allen noticed something distressing, something he hadn’t noticed before that made his stomach twist in displeasure. A baseball sized, purple bruise decorated Anthony's exposed collarbone. He watched as the looming figure let the boy go, and Anthony fell back onto the pavement. Still mumbling bitterly, the man stormed down the street to a parked car, unlocking it and getting in, slamming the door behind him.

Anthony got up, his eyes swimming in an anxiety Allen had never before beheld in the eyes of a child—a fear for what was going to come once he got home. He locked with Allen's concerned gaze. The shaken boy smiled weakly, waving goodbye to his new friend before following the man and getting in the back seat of the dark car. The second the door closed, the car sped off down the street, turning the corner and out of Allen's sight.

"Heavens..." Allen muttered to himself, his mind reeling with what he just witnessed. He turned back to his book, laying on the grass where he set it aside, picking it up and staring at the cover. Anthony's face flashed through his mind, with his ear to ear grin. It felt almost subconscious, but the tips of Allen's mouth curled upward into a wide and awkward smile. If that strange, stubborn boy could find a reason to smile, then so could he.

It was then he became starkly aware that the Carolina Wren had gone deathly quiet. He looked up, surprised to see that he had been accompanied by a nest-mate who had responded to his piercing call, the two of them nestled amongst the tulipwood’s palmate leaves and cupped blossoms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. This chapter took a lot longer to complete than I had anticipated. I never thought I’d be able to post it. Each time I’d review this one, there was something I wanted to add, fix, remove, etc. I can’t tell you how many hours I spent on research for this; from Louisiana flora and fauna; to 1930’s cars; to a map of New Orleans dated back to the 30s.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed it.
> 
> \- Nessa


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